


You Fucked Up

by ARollingStone, HarveyDangerfield



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Ford, Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Subdrop, Top Stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 14:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/ARollingStone, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/HarveyDangerfield
Summary: Just a short and sweet little one shot of the brothers playing their favorite game





	You Fucked Up

**Author's Note:**

> this is a very short one compared to other ones I've written with my spouse, but it's a little nugget of a treat anyway <3

Stan shoves Ford the rest of the way into the bedroom with a boot to the ass, and slams the door behind them, locking it firmly in place so that nobody interrupts them. This is a little ritual they've been indulging in for some time--occasionally, Ford gets a bug up his ass, and he needs Stan to straighten him out.  
  
He supposes even sixty year old men get into a bratty mood sometimes.

 

"You fucked up tonight, Sixer." Stan growls, he takes a few steps from the door and watches as Ford turns to meet him, his face is cherry red and he's grinning like a kid in a candy shop, but that doesn't stop Stan from playing his part.

 

He tugs his tie loose, the fez on his head is slightly crooked, his hair a mess and his ears are a bit red. In the dim light from the bedside lamp, it's not hard to see Stan's cock curving away from his body, tenting the front of his slacks out dramatically enough that it casts a shadow on the floor.

 

"You're gonna make it up to me, aren't ya?" He's unbuttoning his shirt, thick hairs popping up over the collar and buttons, his deep, barrel chest heaving with 'anger.'

 

Ford's entire body is thrumming with excitement in every pore, it makes him feel alive, makes him feel young.  He backs up, still grinning, breathing hard, and visibly trembling as the back of his calves bump the side of the bed.

 

"What if I don't feel like it?" he asks, looking like he's ready to try and Escape if he has to. (They both know that even if he tries, he won't let himself succeed)

 

"If you don't feel like it?" Stan gives a soft chuckle, it's almost patronizing in its way. "Well if you don't feel like it, Sixer I've got a few ways to get you feelin' it . . ."

 

Licking the corner of his mouth, Stan gropes himself through his trousers and rubs a slow line up and down his straining cock. "Ughn . . . you got me real worked up, sweetheart. Why don't you come here and kneel in front of me."

 

Ford feels an immediate clenching of everything from his belly button down, and his breathing slows and deepens as Stan strokes himself, his face flushing even darker still. Only when he's sure Stan's eyes are on him does he make a show of glancing at the door and then back to Stan, and only when Stan's eyes narrow slightly as if daring him to try it does Ford make a break for it-- knowing that Stan will grab him and throw him down by force.

 

Just as soon as Ford breaks for a run, Stan's arm snaps out and he grabs him by the extra fabric of his turtleneck and yanks him to the floor, but even with just half of his  strength, when Ford hits the floor it's like he's slammed into  a concrete wall, going seventy miles per hour and it knocks the wind out of him.

 

Stan casually presses a foot down against his back, rolling him over all the way onto his stomach with the heel of his boot, and he takes the stump of a cigar out of his jacket pocket. "Here's the thing, Sixer." he says through teeth clenched around the cigar, lighting it with a flick of his zippo. "I can toss ya around all night without breakin' a sweat. You wanna rethink your position?"

 

He digs his heel into Ford's back. "Or do ya wanna stay down there awhile and munch the carpet--we both know __that__ ain't your thing."

Ford moans openly and wetly into the carpet, his arms raising up behind him, bent at the elbows, and he puts in a good show of pushing up to try and get his knees under him, but he barely picks his chest up off the ground before Stan grinds him back down and he wheezes out another plaintive moan, his cock immediately going hard in his slacks as he tangles his fists in the shag carpet.

 

"Stanley--" he gasps out, turning his head far enough to watch him light his cigar, and a shudder runs visibly through him as he stares up past the tent of his cock towards his face, underlit by the cherry of the cigar. He lets out a wordless, pathetic sound, whining like a dog.

 

"What?" Stan asks, gruff and still snarling a bit. Once his cigar is lit, Stan grabs his cock again and visibly jerks himself off through the fabric of his trousers. "You got somethin' to say to me, ya pansy?"

 

Ford's thighs spread and shake and he drops his head to pant into the carpet, grinding his forehead against the fibers with a desperate sound. "I'm sorry--" he moans out, coughing and choking on dust, desperate, hungry. "I'll behave."

 

Stan grinds his heel into the small of Ford's back, hard enough that it pinches and puts pressure on his pelvis, his cock slamming into the shag carpet and the unyielding wood floors below.

 

"Whaddid ya say?" Stan blows thick, dark cigar smoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Ya know I'm hard of hearin', might wanna speak up."

 

"I'll behave!" Ford throws his head back and wails, trying to push back up against the foot just for the pleasure of being ground back down, and forcibly fucked into the carpet. "Oh god, Stanley, please, I'm sorry, oh fuck--" his forehead hits the floor again and he bobs his hips up experimentally, writhing underneath the foot trapping him.

 

"Grinding against the floor, you're so __needy__." Stan says, but his voice is far from degrading--while the words themselves are terribly mean, his tone is . . . reverant almost, impressed in a way. He lifts his foot off of Sixer's back and eases back a step or two. "On your knees."

 

Ford flips around so quickly he nearly takes flight, and he scrambles up to his knees. He's still wearing his turtleneck and boots, but the sweater has slipped up to show off a bit of stomach, and he's not bothering to tug it down as he looks up at Stan with shiny, hungry eyes, hands resting obediently on his thighs.

 

"Take off your shirt, and then I want those hands on my cock--and I want you to be worshiping it as soon as it's out--use your words, Sixer." Stan takes a lungful of cigar smoke, and blows it in Ford's face.

 

"Yessir," Ford pants, yanking his sweater up and off. He squints slightly in the smoke and gives a single cough before he tugs open Stan's belt and yanks open his pants, immediately jerking his boxers down under his balls, which he cradles in one palm and gives a firm squeeze as he wraps his other hand around his cock. He's still looking up at Stan, watching him reverently, with heat and need in his eyes. He wants to use his mouth, but Stan  had given him an order to speak and use his hands. "Sorry for teasing you... you know I didn't mean it..."

 

"Oh I know." There's a little twinkle in Stan's blue eyes. "But I also know ya like it when I get gruff and mean with ya sometimes--now tell me how big my cock is, and get to jerkin'."

 

Ford smiles to himself and licks the palm of his hand, sliding his wet grip over Stan's cock in slow, languid strokes, rolling his balls in the other hand. "Are you sure you need me to tell you? You look like you're well aware... I can barely fit my hand all the way around you."

 

"Oh I am __well__  aware, Ford but you insulted my prowess tonight, so I need a bit of fluffing before we get to the nitty gritty. _ _You hurt my feelings__." Stan gives a choked, staged sob. "How will my ego ever cope?"

 

Ford's cheeks heat up and he grins, flicking his tongue over the tip once. "Big bad Stanley needs his lowly sub to tell him how big his cock is?" he bares his teeth playfully up at Stan, twisting his hand over his cock on every stroke. He puts a fake, cheesy moan into his voice, "Oh Stanley your willy is so big how will I ever fit it..."

 

Stan blushes, "You're cruisin' for a brusin' Sixer."

 

With the fake moan still in place, Ford leans into the joke, delighting in the juxtaposition between the expert taking-apart he's doing with his hands, rolling Stan's balls up against his pelvic floor in one and stroking over his length with the other. "You mean like how you'll bruise me with your great big pecker?"

 

Stan staggers back a little, the prostate stimulation shaking him a bit, "C'mon Stanford . . . agh, just gimme this. You know it turns me on."

 

Ford loves it when Stan calls him by his full name, and he lets the cheesiness leech out of his voice. "Sorry, Stanley," he murmurs, kissing his way up the side as he grinds his thumb in hard circles over the tip. He sucks a spot on the underside close to the base, moaning as the tart flavor of Stan's musk coats his tongue while he licks him across the crease between his cock and balls. "You know how bad I want you to rip me apart... I don't even want you to stretch me tonight, just stick a finger in me deep enough to get me wet and then tear me in half, Stanley... I wanna be stuffed up to my teeth, I want your cum to shoot out my mouth."

 

"See, how hard was that . . ." Stan gives a gruff laugh. "Not as hard as me, right now."

 

He sinks his fingers into Ford's hair and presses the cigar between his teeth to take another drag, just relishing in the pull of his brother's fingers over his slick cock. "I know it's dumb but . . . my big cock's the only thing I got goin' for me, physically. I like to be reminded every once in awhile."

 

Ford's eyes flick up to look at Stan. "You're kidding, right?" he hums. He's not sure if it's bait or not,but he's falling for it either way. "You think this is all you have going for you?" he tugs sharply on Stan's cock. "What about your arms? Those arms can pin me down over any surface and I'd thank you in front of anyone... your voice puts me in a fucking thought coma, Stanley, I can't even think when you're growling in my ear..." as he speaks he focuses his attention on the head of Stan's cock, swirling his thumb over the tip and rubbing it along the underside of the ridge. "Your chest hair rubbing against my back when you fuck me from behind drives me crazy, and don't even get me started on your gut..."

 

Stan groans softly, his mouth going so slack the cigar nearly drops onto his chest, he licks his lips, brows furrowed, eyes closed. "Stanford . . . agh .  ."

 

It's clear by his silence, and the way he won't even look at Ford that he __is__  serious. Maybe the teasing had gotten to him a little more than he'd let on. Some of that anger might not have been entirely fabricated, but copping to it in any direct way would be admitting weakness.

 

Ford hums low in his throat as he wraps his lips over the head for a brief suck before dragging his tongue down the length, lifting it up so he can roll one of Stan's balls across his palm and tug at is with his lips, his hot breath washing over the soft, sensitive flesh.

 

"There's nobody I've ever met in all the known multiverse who turns me on faster or harder than you, Stanley Pines," he groans, his voice sticking and wet in his throat as he drags his tongue back up along his cock to grind the flat of it into the very tip, delighting in the way it oozes pre across the muscle.

 

Stan sighs, smoke billowing out of his mouth like a chimney. For a moment or two, he's completely silent, but he slowly pushes Ford back, away from his prick and recovers, grinning broadly, "Like I needed you to tell me that--those were pretty words, but they won't save ya for what I've got in store."

 

Despite his cocky words, there's a soft, silent thank you in Stan's eyes that remains unspoken. He coughs under his breath to cover that moment of vulnerability and frowns deeply, "Get on the bed, and take your pants off unless ya want me to rip a hole in the ass and fuck ya through it."

 

As amazing as that sounds, Ford desperately needs some kind of friction against his cock, and getting fucked into the be will do just that. He hastily kicks off his boots and shucks his pants, scrambling onto the mattress and laying back against the sheets, propped up on his elbows with his legs spread lazily, his feet flat on the blankets as he gazes across the room at Stan with hungry eyes, frantically combing over the entirety of his brother's massive frame.

 

His cock is laying up against his stomach, leaking into the hair there immediately and he gives a shuddering breath that makes his cock twitch and pulse against his hip. "Stanley, please," he gasps out after a torturous minute passes of just being looked at.

 

"Ahhh I'm comin' don't get your panties in a bunch. I was just admirin' the view."  
  
 Stopping at the bedside table, Stan crushes the butt of his cigar down and puts it out, he'll pick it up later when he wants a smoke after sex--and standing at the side of the bed, he takes his time getting undressed.

 

The suitjacket slides down his broad shoulders with a whoosh of silky fabric, then the tie goes and he unbuttons his shirt one, slow button at a time, letting Ford watch in agony, quite enjoying the impatient and desperate look on his face. Then his pants and his shoes go.

 

Still wearing his boxers and undershirt, the fez perched on his head, held in place by pins that would be too complex to fuss with at the moment. Stan climbs into bed, the springs groaning in protest under his weight, and he tugs Ford's ass down to meet his thighs, propping him up there so his body is angled up and Ford is lying back on his shoulders.

 

"You asked for this." Stan wets his finger by sticking it in his own mouth, and it comes away with a pop--then leaning out a bit over Ford, he feels around for his hole and with one fluid motion, jams his finger deep into his guts, pressing without mercy right against his prostate with no work up.

 

When Ford's cock jolts up, Stan grins wide, "Oh ho you're not complainin' too much, are ya?"

 

With his finger rammed inside to one big, knobby knuckle, Stan massages that spot in circles with merciless pressure, working in and out, stretching Ford and making him see stars.

 

Ford immediately clamps both hands over his mouth with a loud, gusty moan. His eyes scrunch up and his face goes bright, bright red as he moans helplessly into his palms. His thighs twitch open and his back twists on the bed, arching and pumping his hips into Stan's lap, against his finger as he completely falls apart in his lap.

 

"GOD!" he yells, the pressure in his throat getting to him and his hands leave his mouth in a rush of moans and yelps, his head thrown back into the sheets. One hand twists the blanket beside him and the other is thrown up to grab onto the sleeve of Stan's undershirt, gripping it so tightly a few threads pop. "Stanley! Oh GOD Stanley!"

 

"Look at you--I love watchin' ya squirm. You're so filthy, so fuckin' needy." Stan leans forward, their cocks bounce against one another, the weight of Stan's heavy gut against him--his body is broader, bearing down between his legs as he grinds his finger into that spot like he's digging for gold, so rough that Ford knows he's going to be aching in the morning.  
  
"Say my name again, you fuckin' slut-- ** **say it****."

 

"Stanley!" Ford nearly turns upside-down he arches so far, his shoulder twisting and pressing his cheek into the sheet. "Oh god oh FUCK oh fuck Stanley-- Stanley oh my GOD--" he sobs, his thighs snapping up tight against Stan's hips and around his waist, dragging him in, tugging him tighter against his body. "I'm gonna come you're gonna make me come too fa--AHH-- fast!"

 

Stan rubs him easy and gentle for a few more strokes, just letting his body calm down from the onslaught. "I told ya not to complain, didn't I?"

 

After a few more passes of his finger, he slides it out of Ford's wet hole and sighs deeply, "I'm gonna flip ya over and fuck ya from behind . . ."

 

"Do whatever you want to me," Ford gasps, shaking to pieces as he looks up at Stan, his face red up to his eyeballs. "Flip me over, fuck me upside down, cut me and fuck the hole, whatever you're gonna do, do it now I can't take it anymore--" he begs in a throaty, low groan, arching his back and grinding his ass down into Stan's lap.

 

Stan flushes, he loves when Ford gets pushy. Stan grabs him hard by the arms and flips him over, easily maneuvering him around like a ragdoll--he props him up, just to make sure he's comfortable, putting a pillow under his chest so he has something to cling to, and to bite down on for what's to come.

 

Positioning himself behind him, between his jelly legs, Stan spreads his ass with one hand, opening his hole so it's gaping and winking up at him, then taking his cock in hand, he presses the thick head against that ring of muscles until they give way and he works himself inside.

 

"Oh fuck . . ." Stan looks down, watches himself slide flush with Ford's ass, filling him with every inch he has to give. Leaning forward, he grabs the back of Ford's neck and holds steady there for a minute, listening to his brother's broken sighs and gasps.

 

Then he's pounding into him--leaning out over his body, one hand braced on the headboard, the other at the back of Ford's neck, slamming into him so hard that he bounces on the bed with each thrust. A string of curses leaves Stan's mouth, practically wringing Ford's neck from behind.

 

If they were closer to civilization, someone might have called the police over the sounds currently being fucked out of Ford. He screams until his throat goes raw and his voice cracks, he screams until he's absolutely hoarse and just keeps wailing. It's muffled partially by the pillow under him, but even that isn't enough to completely drown out the sounds coming from him.

 

Taking Stan's cock without prep is like being punched up into by an entire forearm, even taking it with prep can be overwhelming sometimes, but taking him like this-- Ford can feel his soul being fucked directly out of his body. The ache is bones-deep, shaking him to his fucking core, and his eyes roll back in his head as he fights just to stay conscious under the onslaught of pleasure and pain.

 

"Stanley!" he wails, fisting the sheets and pushing up on one shoulder to grind his forehead into the mattress, clutching the pillow to his chest with his other arm and screaming into the bed sheets.

 

"Oh fuck, oh fuck . . . oh ****fuck****!"  He's chanting mindlessly, a string of drool leaves his bottom lip and dribbles onto Ford's back, jaw going slack as he pounds Ford into the mattress--the headboard is slamming into the wall now, so hard it's leaving a dent in the wallpaper. Ford is all but buried under him, his whole body pinned against the bed, back arching up at an uncomfortable angle as Stan presses his face into the pillow.

 

Ford's never felt so good--he's wet and so, so tight. With every contraction of his muscles, it feels like he's squeezing the life out of Stan's cock, it won't be long at this rate before he comes. "You fuckin' . . . agh! ****Stanford!****  God, your hole feels so good--you feel ****so good!**** Goddamn, goddamn . . . ** **goddamn!"****

 

Ford's voice breaks and shatters off completely, turning into a desperate wheeze as his orgasm is brutally fucked out of him, his hole contracting and clenching mercilessly around his brother's cock.  He comes without a whisper of attention paid to his cock, immediately melting into liquid on the bed as he shoots off across the sheets with barely an indication that he came at all, in voice or posture.

 

But Stan can feel it in the way his ass clamps down around his cock, rippling like it's trying to swallow him whole. He can feel it in the way that all of Ford's muscles have bunched up together desperately, clenching up as he hunches down, and then finally his voice hits him again and he sobs into the bed like he's witnessed the face of god himself.

 

Stan's hand immediately moves from the back of Ford's neck to the place just between his shoulder blades, and he strokes him gently there. It doesn't take but a few hard thrusts more, and Stan's coming apart, his orgasm more obvious in the way his body sags down heavily against Ford, pinning him to the bed under his weight as his brother sobs and Stan's cock shoots several heavy loads of cum into his belly.

 

He lays there on top of him for a moment before slowly pulling out and rolling off of his brother--and carefully, he gathers him into his arms, stroking over his brow, brushing curls away from Ford's face as he cries.

 

"I've got ya." Stan mumbles against his skin. "I've got ya."

 

Sometimes Ford just cries during or after sex for no real reason. He's not sad-- he's just completely overwhelmed by sensation. He sobs into Stan's shoulder, shaking against his body as the aftershocks rip through him of the most powerful prostate orgasm he's had in a while, his hiccupping cries only broken up by the desperate, throaty moans that knife in between them. He finally, blissfully relaxes a harrowing minute later, left panting and wet-faced and completely slack against Stan, fucked quite literally brainless and shivering.

 

Stan's just stroking his belly, over the taught area just above his cock, trying to ease some of the tension in his body; he peppers soft kisses against his forehead and cheeks, holding his limp body against his, just the sound of their breathing passing between them for awhile.

 

"You're okay . . . I'm here." Stan rumbles softly. "You're safe, everything's okay."

 

Reaching over, he grabs the box of tissues from the bedside table and dabs at the tears on Ford's face, then wipes up the stickiness remaining on his body from his orgasm. He'll give him a proper bath after he's settled down and he's feeling more human, it always helps him relax after an intense session.

 

"I love you, Stanford." He whispers, kissing him again.

 

All Ford can manage is a sleepy, fucked-out smile, and he turns his face against his brother's shoulder with a drunken sort of giggle, winding his arm loosely over his waist and settling down into the relaxing buzz of being taken care of.

 

 


End file.
